by submission | Aug 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Sam Davis
“Ray, I’ve got proof! Come quick!” Leeroy’s voice came through the sheet over the doorway that ineffectively kept the July heat isolated to the livingroom. I wanted to go back to sleep but something in his tone dragged me from the comfort of my cot. I pushed past the sheet and began to yell.
“Goddamnit, Leeroy! Can’t a fella get a moments peace around here without…” Then I noticed that the ever present sound of static that typically emanated from the ‘space-radio’ was gone. It had been replaced by a noise that didn’t quite seem to all fit inside my ears. I stood, dumbfounded for a moment until, not uncharacteristically, Leeroy broke the pseudo-silence.
“It’s aliens, Ray! Gotta be. I been broadcasting math, just like you said would work. Sure as shootin’, it did work!” His excitement was palpable but I tried to bring him back down to Earth.
“It is probably just some malfunction from the cell tower over on Ol’ Riley’s place or somesuch.” As if the cosmos wanted to spite me, at that moment the noise stopped and through the windows of the doublewide came a blue glow like nothing I had seen before. The screen door snapped open, banging against the cheap aluminum siding, revealing to us a ship.
Of course there was no stopping Leeroy. Before I could stop him, he was out the door and waving eagerly at the ship. More concerned for Leeroy’s well-being than for my own, I followed him. We stood, in awe for several moments before the blue glow died.
Suddenly, three beings stood before us. There were no lights or noises like you always see on those late night made for T.V. movies. They just appeared. Small, lanky, and despite popular cinema, not naked, the aliens stared at us. It seemed like they were waiting for something. Of course, they didn’t have to wait for long before Leeroy opened his mouth.
“W-e-welcome to Earth! I am Leeroy and this here is my pal, Ray. I’ve been sending out the signals!” He pointed to himself and then to the ‘array’ he had cobbled together from stolen satellite dishes. No sooner had he done this when the foremost of the three pulled out a ray gun and shot poor Leeroy into dust.
I froze, petrified, waiting for my turn to come and prove Reverend Peters right-dust to dust. But it didn’t come. Instead they began to speak. Well, I say they spoke. It was more like a cat and a belt buckle in a dryer being tossed down a well. I shook my head, trying to indicate that I didn’t understand. One of the creatures came up to me so quick that I didn’t even have time to flinch. He slapped me right across the face, which I am fairly certain wasn’t entirely necessary, and then skittered back to the group. The dryer started up again but after a second or two, the dying cat transformed into understandable speech.
I can’t put into words what they said. Instead of translating their words into English, I simply understood what they were saying. I can only imagine they had a device or some alien ability that allowed us both to understand each other.
They explained that due to some anomaly in space somewhere along Leeroy’s transmission trajectory, his voice, his bumbled attempts to explain math, had been carried through space-time. For about 300 years, “the daemon in the ear”, as near as I can translate, had been speaking to them. Many of their people, traditionally long lived and peaceful, found the constant noise to be so annoying that wars were started and for the first time in centuries, suicide was considered.
As they explained all this, I sat in my recliner, after offering them a beer of course. Occasionally I paused them to ask a question for clarification and then they would resume the tale. Once they concluded, I asked if there was anything I could do. They told me to dismantle the communications equipment and go about my life. And try to make sure no one transmits from this point again.
Of course, I agreed. You don’t really disagree with aliens with disintegration rays, now do you? Then they kindly said they were going to be on their way. Sorry about my friend and all that. Then one of them shot the microwave.
Just in case, they said.
by submission | Aug 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jay Hill
Phillipe Renault tried to wait for the speaker to finish before posing his question. He stirred sugar into his espresso with a tiny plastic spoon, gently moving the utensil in a tight figure eight. After several seconds, he tapped it on the edge of the saucer and began drumming his fingertips on the marble table, waiting for the beverage to cool. The next pause in the presentation proved elusive, however. Each new screen brought with it a fresh set of questions. Whether it was the result of too much caffeine or just a general lack of patience, he finally interrupted the briefing to address the issue many in the room were eager to understand.
“You mean we can have criminals escaping to other universes?” Renault asked with intended incredulity.
The concept of inter-universal travel loomed heavily over the Interpol Chiefs meeting. The rumor that the theory was now a practice raised the level of concern for what this might mean to a group of officers already tasked with identifying and capturing suspected criminals moving across geographic borders.
After allowing the room occupants several minutes of addled murmuring, Regional Chief Alana Gehring stood up from the north end of the conference table and paced over to the display screen.
“That is correct,” she answered in a thick German accent. “We have already documented several instances of this.”
The confirmation, so matter of fact, resounded around the room with explicit finality. Her response was met with a collective inhale of surprised gasps.
“The corresponding ‘blips’ here, here and here represent tracers,” she explained. “These informants were hired to follow selected suspects into parallel –“
“So you’re saying that it’s a fact?” Renault interrupted again to clarify. “This briefing isn’t just an update on hypothetical possibilities. You’ve actually managed to catch people doing this?”
Gehring motioned towards the blinking lights on the data screen and nodded. A long palpable silence followed.
“But how did they get this technology?” a female Interpol officer from Spain asked.
“Was it the Americans?” another officer added.
“How many cases are we talking here?” the Belgian Chief questioned.
“And how will we equip our agents to continue pursuits across the…” Renault paused mid-sentence. “What do you even call it, the parallels?”
“These are all very good questions,” Gehring surmised, raising her hands to discourage further outbursts. “Rest assured that we have already considered many of these scenarios in crafting today’s update.
“Now if you will scan ahead to page 54, we will discuss jurisdictional boundaries.”
“Jurisdiction?!” Renault interrupted a third time. “How can we even start to worry about…” He put his hands up, sighed heavily and shook his head in deference.
“I’m too old for this,” he muttered to himself.
“And think of the changes in extradition law,” the Belgian Chief hissed.
Renault took another sip of his espresso and scrolled through the rest of the presentation. Section C covered Jurisdictional Boundaries, D outlined Allowable Pursuit Tactics, and just like the Belgian Chief forewarned, the fifth section addressed Changes in Extradition Law. F covered the consequences of an Inter-universal Weapons Discharge, and the final section, Parallel Identification Issues discussed the various ramifications of bringing in the wrong ‘parallel’ for questioning. On the opening slide for this section, Gehring was quoted, saying: “An individual may be guilty in our universe, but innocent in his/her own.” Renault minimized the presentation on his digital pad, and instead opened an antiquated spreadsheet software and began reviewing again, the number of months until he could retire.
by submission | Aug 19, 2012 | Story |
Author : Townsend Wright
They came when I was young. Crash landed, really. Science said it was a great discovery, but they couldn’t live in our air. But they could do something to their own DNA, made their offspring suited to earth. Big bug things, we started calling them figits. They latched to our buildings and scampered through our streets. We used bullets but they just adapted again, gave their young a hard shell. So we used fire. Fire retardant shells. Gas. Learned to breathe it. Chainsaw. Repair cuts in themselves. We ended up switching methods every so often just to keep them dying.
One day I’m walking with my young son and stop in a crowd to watch a figit extermination. It’s fire month. Ugly-ass thing, big as a car, latched to an office building, squirming, screeching in the flames. My boy looks up at me.
“Daddy,” he says, “what did the figits ever do to us that made us want to kill ’em so bad?” I looked down at him. So did the folks next to us, and behind us, and in front of us. Whispers spread his question through the crowd and all conversation stops. One by one all heads turned his way, even the exterminators stopped to look and the figit’s screaming stopped. In the dead silence my boy still looks to me.
Nobody has an answer.
by submission | Aug 18, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
People don’t want to feel anymore, not beyond petty happiness. They don’t read to expand their minds or learn or come across the emotional depth that real art brings about. People read their shallow books about overcoming some petty obstacle, about being special, about fucking some person because that’s what love is about after all; They watch their holograms filled with sex and violence and childish plots. They listen to music that has fewer different notes in it than I have when I speak one damn sentence. Dancing is just sex with clothes on. Paintings and sculptures are just a shade of vomit passed off as beauty.
Nobody appreciates art any more. Nobody will go and seek out art for the enjoyment of it, for the sake of expanding horizons. We care more about establishing colonies than we do about aesthetics. Do we even have a culture worth spreading any more? Where does that leave the artists of the world?
Skyl bit the bullet last week. He tried to, at least, but you can’t really bite something that’s going six hundred meters a second. He only succeeded in shattering the back of his throat and the base of his spine, the poor idiot. He was in a coma until an hour ago. He’ll be six feet under in another hour.
Coralee went a month ago. She drank herself to death on 160-proof liquor, and I don’t think I really blame her. Her last act was to vomit into a seven hundred year old Stradivarius, just to make a point. She was right when she argued with me and said that people would mourn the loss of the person more than the violin. And really, they wouldn’t miss the person at all, so what was the point any more?
My wife. She died a year ago. She was selling her paintings on the street, pieces that rivaled what now collect dust in the Louvre. A man took a disliking to her taking up street space and stabbed her, then set fire to her and her paintings. The authorities said he was mentally ill and there was nothing to do for it. I went by his house last week. He’s still there. She was just an artist after all.
Why am I telling you this? Easy. I want you to have context, to know why I am going to do what I am about to do. I want you to understand the emotions behind the piece of art that you are about to become. Nobody will be able to ignore you – or me.
The muscle relaxants have well and truly kicked in by now, though I’m sure you noticed that, just like I’m sure you noticed the mirror above you and the fact that you are completely naked. I hope you don’t mind the lights – I need them so that I can see your skin while I work.
It wasn’t hard to get ahold of a good supply of razor blades, and while you slept I traced out everything that needs doing. You are going to be beautiful. You are going to be absolutely beautiful.
Be happy, be happy like me. You are the canvass, I am the artist, and we are going to make history. We are going to bring art back to the people, make them see again what they are missing.
I truly am sorry that I’ll have to take your eyes out, though. They’re very pretty, but I can’t have you turning me in to the authorities. That wouldn’t do at all. No, not at all.
by submission | Aug 17, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
“Hello darkness, my old friend.
I’ve come to talk with you again.
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain,
Still remains,
Within the sound of silence.”
– Simon and Garfunkel
I awake from dreams about a person I once knew. Was it me? Opening my “eyes”, the brilliance of a new day assaults my senses, but it’s not the light of home. I’m 7,600 light years from my birthplace and it’s not one sun but two which dazzles my vision. I’m looking at Eta Carinae, a binary solar system possessing the largest known sun in the Milky Way galaxy, EC-A; a hundred solar masses and five hundred times brighter than Sol.
Blinking, I switch filters, shifting into the cooler ultraviolet range. This is as natural to me now as squinting once was. My brain, (the only real thing I’ve left that I can call my own), communicates via a synthetic nervous system to sensory units capable of 360 degree vision and can peer deep into all spectrums of light.
My “ears” hear radio waves like they once heard sound. When I first left Earth, I thrilled at the illusion of traveling back in time as I moved through (slightly Doppler shifted) radio signals broadcast since the dawn of radio. It was comforting to relive those transmissions from bygone ages of wars, musical genres and radio plays, but I never felt more alone than the moment I crossed the threshold of Earth’s first broadcast. What a strange form of resurrection it is, hearing Hienrich Hertze a thousand years after his death, a billion miles from home. When his historic oscillations cut silent, replaced by the cold, alien, inscrutable frequencies of space, I knew that I was truly alone. It took ages to comprehend the seemingly random and chaotic signals filling the void. But now, I understand the language of space as easily as a conversation in a crowded room. The rotations of suns are heartbeats to me now, pulsars, like the ticking of clocks. When I listen carefully, I can even hear the faint music of creation.
Moving through the Homunculus Nebula, twin billowing clouds of celestial dust blown from EC-A in one of its false supernova’s, my “tongue” begins to taste the bitter tang of iron and nickel, my “nose” detects the sweet aroma of oxygen and hydrogen. I compare the sensation to the sharp effervescence of a deep, red wine aged in oak barrels. Don’t ask me why.
A million units of data are unconsciously recorded and categorized as I’m caught in the gravity well of the massive binary system. It’s stored within my “memory”, remotely accessible by my Earth bound research team even should I “die” out here. I only wish I could remember more of my own memories… before the transplant. Only in the long dream, as I travel the vast gulfs of space to my destinations can I glimpse fragments of my terrestrial life, but it’s like gazing into a shaken snow globe full of shadows. The doctors told me this was to protect me from madness. I have no idea if they’re right, but I have an ache, an inexplicable emptiness I yearn to fill.
I feel gravity’s grip as I carefully maneuver my sleek, mirrored, oblong “body” into a trajectory which will make the best use of the extremely high gravity, one that will sling me like a catapult further on my journey, deeper into the unknown and closer to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream…
by submission | Aug 16, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
The twin, muscled eunuchs shove the girl to the feet of Tar Marrella, Crèche mother. The remaining forty-seven crèche citizens stand in a rough circle surrounding them. All but the girl wear pale, toga-like robes and watch impassively, dull eyed and slack jawed. The girl’s dirt smeared clothes are obviously Old World relics; black pants, a stained, white t-shirt and a filthy denim jacket, the likes of which haven’t been seen for over eight hundred years. A wild mass of auburn hair coils about her head.
“We found this one in the Restricted Zone,” says one of the eunuchs. “Near the old city,” finishes the other.
Tar Marrella, tsks disapprovingly. She lifts the girl’s freckled chin with her finger carefully, as if the feral girl might suddenly bite.
“Who are you?”
The girl’s emerald eyes blaze with rebellion.
“What Crèche are you from, child?”
No response.
“What were you doing in the Restricted Zone? Collecting these?” Marrella gestures dismissively at the girl’s clothes. “Every child knows it’s against the Law to enter the Forbidden Zone, or to possess artifacts from the Age of Death. Why awaken memories we have all tried so hard to forget?”
The girl remains obstinate.
“Stubborn, are we? Very well. There are other means of getting the answers I seek.” Tar Marrella speaks without anger, or malice. “But first, let us remove that defiled clothing. Even after all these years, Death clings to it. The smell offends me.”
Susurrations of agreement come from the crowd as the two eunuchs, despite her ineffectual struggling, strip her bare and thrust her into the center of the ring of watchers.
The gathering grows deathly quite. All stare in disbelief.
The girl stands naked and defiant, tangled hair cascading over her freckled shoulders to drape over the gentle mound of her breasts. Ribs push against her taught, pale skin. Her strong, lean legs brace for action. Her hands clench into fists.
It’s not her nakedness that has stilled the masses. All gawk at her navel, the tight little whirlpool of skin just above her tangle of ruddy pubic hair.
A woman’s horrified scream breaks the silence and the crowd erupts into frightened banter.
“Freeborn!” someone yells.
Tar Marrella circles the profane girl as if she was a poisonous viper and raises her voice above the panic.
“It’s Blasphemy to be born of the flesh, a Sin to live in the shadow of our ancestors, whose greed and lust nearly destroyed the world so long ago. We, the Children of the Crèche have lived harmoniously for a thousand years! Born in the Crèche! Dieing in the Crèche! Reborn again! This has been our way. Five hundred thousand of the purest were chosen. Only five hundred thousand can there be. This is the Law! Our wise forefathers knew the only escape from sin was through Clone Resurrection. There can be no Freeborn to taint our perfection. Death to the Lawbreakers!”
The murderous horde echoes the verdict and closes in, tightening like a sphincter.
The girl’s green eyes flash. She inhales deeply, a furrow of concentration creasing her brow. She waits patiently for the oppressive mass to condense, for the first tentative probing fingers of her dull witted attackers.
When all are within range, she retaliates.
Her short ranged, but powerful psychic assault reduces the entire mob into a quivering, spastic mass. Their weak minds, too old and frail, their intellect spread too thinly over a thousand years of revolving resurrections are easily dominated by her own.
The naked girl looms over the epileptic form of Tar Marrella.
“Evolve or die, bitch.”
